


The Man With the Twisted Heart

by willowswhiten



Series: In Pursuit of Bees [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowswhiten/pseuds/willowswhiten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year spent believing Sherlock dead, John is just beginning to realise how much everything has changed between them - will he be brave enough to say the one thing his friend somehow never deduced?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of something that's been up on ff.net for ages, but I've fallen sort of head-over with this site and I'd love for you all to see it here.

Sherlock Holmes was born on a Wednesday. Despite the child's expectations, there was no fanfare and no ceremony to his birth. He was delivered safely at home, with his father out of town on business, and his mother noted that he was far scrawnier than his older brother before she picked up her copy of New Scientist and promptly lost interest in him until he beat her at Scrabble for the first time aged four.

 

            He didn't cry. For a horrible second, the midwife thought she might have delivered a deaf child,  but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. It was simply that from the very first moment of his life, the baby was observing his world and finding it wanting.

 

            John discovered the day of his flatmate's birth by accident, working on a case which involved a savant little girl whose autism gave her mathematic abilities to rival even Sherlock's. One of her skills was to determine the day of the week of any date in history.

 

            Sherlock had very little patience for children, but he had disappeared with Mallory for a good hour, and when he had returned she was beaming and he was holding from his little finger, as though he'd forgotten about it, a doll's teacup.

 

            They'd gotten it home without him noticing, the taxi ride mostly taken up with Sherlock animatedly discussing Mallory's abilities.

 

            'She hasn't even heard of Esher, so I don't really see how she could have been involved with the theft, but they may have used her for code breaking. Honestly, I have no idea what they're doing with her, she could have so much potential with the right tutelage.'

 

            'Are you honestly bragging because you're more knowlegable than a six year old girl?'

 

            Sherlock had shot him a filthy look, although there was a small smile behind it John didn't miss. He'd liked Mallory, and something in John's chest tightened at the thought of a six-year-old Sherlock, isolated and cripplingly intelligent in a cold country home.

 

            'She's not boring, I'll give her that. Although she does have a strange obsession with fiction, much like you. She shares your inordinate interest in Jules Verne.' Sherlock snorted and gestured expansively with the hand still sporting a teacup ring. 'The man had no knowledge of even basic astrophysics.'

 

            'That's not the point, and you know it,' John said with a smile, knowing that his partner was just trying to get a rise out of him. Sherlock found John's love of sci-fi intruiging, mostly because it gave him something to argue about in bouts of boredom. 'Was the whole days-of-the-week thing at all useful?'

 

            'Don't be ridiculous, it was completely pointless. A parlour trick. However, she did give me some ideas to work with. Seven ideas.' He thought for a moment. 'Six. And she informed me that I was born on a Wednesday. You, aparently, were born on a Friday. I asked.'

 

            John was surprised. 'You remembered my birthday? This year you broke my laptop and bought me a coffee in Speedy's when my girlfriend came over with a cake. Not exactly your finest moment as a friend.'

 

            'Precisely, which is why I now remember, because you pouted for a full week and called me... what was it? A self-possessed, weapons-grade wanker? Despite your ire, John, I'm willing to bet you my violin that you can't remember the name of that dullard girl you insisted on boring me with over Tesco sponge cake. I would have prefered it if you'd just hit me, like you did when I returned from destroying Moriarty's empire.'

 

            John opened his mouth to protest, but after a panicked ten second interval of thinking, _Suzanne? Sally? Sarah?_ He gave up and glowered at Sherlock. 'Why does it matter what day of the week I was born?'

 

            Sherlock's smile was sweet and bright, one of his rare smiles which was neither condescending or vaguely rabid with excitement. 'Friday's child is loving and giving, John.'

 

            John grinned, despite himself. 'And Wednesday?'

 

            There was a pause, brief as a heartbeat, but a thousand thoughts could cross Sherlock's mind in that time. 'Wednesday's child is full of woe. Old wives' tales, nothing in them. I tested a few when I was a child. Attempted to disprove my nanny's idiotic flawed reasoning behind forcing me to eat my vegetables.'

 

            'Which was?'

 

            'She said they make hair curl. I already had curly hair, so I stopped eating vegetables in an attempt to straighten them, and the results were inconclusive.'

 

            'So what, exactly, did you gain from refusing to listen to her?'

 

            Sherlock looked over at him and that smile, the one John spent half his life trying to inspire, ghosted his lips. 'Scurvy.'

 

            John laughed so loudly the taxi driver swerved. 'You did not honestly get a disease generally unique to pirates.'

 

            'No, Mycroft stepped in before it got to that stage. If it weren't for me, he'd never do anything interesting. But it did appeal to me at the time. I was quite fond of pirates.'

 

            'If it weren't for him, you'd be dead. And I thought he basically ran the British government. Which begs the question: what's so much more interesting than running the country?'

 

            Sherlock gave him a look of utter contempt and idly played with the teacup, spinning it around his finger. 'Oh, John. Most everything is more interesting than that. Except for spinach.'

 

            The tea cup had sat on their mantle, next to the skull, for weeks before Sherlock had melted it in an experiment. John came home from the surgery, stinking of disinfectant and exhausted from a day of giving flu jabs to the elderly, and as he'd done for the past few weeks, he went straight to the matle, dumping his backpack and coat on the sofa on his way.

 

            He didn't miss the endless adrenaline of being a frontline medic, or the toll it took on his body; he got that rush from his work with Sherlock. But he wasn't used to the boredom of seeing the same illnesses and injuries over and over again, and it took it out of him. His shoulder ached, and his head was killing him, and for some reason it always made him feel better to see that small teacup and remember the expression on Sherlock's face when Mallory – whose condition meant she didn't like to be touched – had given him a quick, ferocious hug.

 

            The way Sherlock had held himself awkwardly, before the tall man had bent his willowy form and had touched the palm of his hand to the little girl's head, holding her to him and looking for all the world as if he'd just been struck by lightning.

 

            John knew better than anyone that Sherlock was antisocial, difficult and introverted, but he saw a side to the younger man no one else was permitted to see. He couldn't remember at what point Sherlock had ceased to guard his emotions around him, but each time he caught another glimpse of a facet of the consulting detective he became more committed.

 

            But the bastard had taken away John's teacup, his new coping mechanism for what had become an increasingly stressful life where toes occupied the vegetable crisper and his socks set off a Geiger counter. He had spent a year of his life mourning, after Reichenbach, and the only way he could cope with it anymore was to pretend as if it had never happened. As if everything was fine, and he hadn't had his heart completely broken and then re-assembled in the most half-arsed way.

 

            Sherlock had had reasons, ones so good and so logical that John couldn't debate them. But the betrayal refused to die, even now, three awkward-as-hell months later with the two of them dancing around each other. John wanted to yell, wanted to tell him that it wasn't alright, but he'd done that already, and he couldn't bear the brief but unbearable moment of weakness on Sherlock's face when the younger man had believed that he'd done something unforgivable.

 

            He knew what that felt like; he knew the dawning realisation that you had lost something which could never be replaced.

 

            And, damn it, he needed that teacup. He needed to be reminded of why he stayed.

 

            Something snapped in him and he roared, turned on his heel and stormed up the stairs.

 

            'Sherlock Bloody Holmes, where the hell are you?'

 

            Some muffled reply came from the depths of Sherlock's room, but John didn't hear what it was.

 

            'I don't ask for much,' John continued, enjoying the theraputic sound of his own yelling. 'A bit of toast, jam that isn't being used to grow fungal spores, and some tea, sometimes. A little privacy, maybe? But all in all, I put up with a hell of a lot.'

 

            He burst into Sherlock's room, and spotted the detective huddled in the corner, crouched on the floor.

 

            'You know that I like that teacup. You don't miss anything! So where is it, Sherlock? What have you done with it?'

 

            Sherlock looked up, something John had only seen once before in his expression. In Baskerville, when he had been doubting his own sanity, when he hadn't been sure. Surety was the foundation of the fragile, exquisitely wrought structure that was Sherlock Holmes, and without it, he looked... lost.

 

            Instantly, John's rage ebbed, and he settled down on the floor beside his friend, reaching for his hands. 'What's happened? Are you alright? Hurt?'

 

            'I know you like it,' he murmured, and held up sticky hands, obviously scalded. 'I was trying to make tea in it, but it melted.'

 

            John noted the mess of plastic and tea on the floor.

 

            'You tried to make tea?' Normally, John's habit of parroting things back that didn't make immediate sense annoyed the detective, but now, a red flush of what might have been embarassment rose up that ridiculous column of a neck.

 

            'Tuesday. You always come home, twenty-five minutes past five on a Tuesday; you stop for a Twix on your way home, and then you make me tea.' He waved the hand which wasn't being examined by his live-in physician expressively. 'I was bored. No case, nothing to do but wait for you to get home and make things not boring. You always go to the teacup – I thought there could be tea in it.'

 

            John considered this, for a moment too long, very well aware that his friend's clear, intense gaze was levelled at his own forehead. He could almost feel those pale lazer-beams burning obscure mathematical symbols into his skin.

 

            'The last time you made me a hot beverage, you were trying to drug me.'

 

            'I am, at Mrs Hudson's request, trying to be nicer.'

 

            'There wouldn't have been more than a mouthful of tea in there. And why in your bedroom?'

 

            'I was working on an experiment in here, you couldn't very well expect me to focus all my attentions on tea.'

 

            'If you had, you might have considered the fact that it would melt when filled with boiling water.' John looked around at the normally neat room and spotted a weird arrangement of petri dishes containing... 'is that blood agar?'

 

            'Hmmm? Yes, it is. Are you going to do medical things to that hand?'

 

            He'd been holding it for quite a long time, and, grabbing a bit of Sherlock's arm which wasn't burnt, he hauled the taller man to his feet. Sherlock swayed a little, his gaze still completely focused on watching – and attempting to read – the play of emotions across John's face.

 

            'Come on.' John led him to the bathroom, where the medical kit was already open on the windowsill, waiting for the moment when either of the inhabitants of 221B did themselves a dramatic, bloody mischief. 'Whose blood is it?'

 

            'Mine, and Mycroft's.'

 

            'It has to be illegal to draw blood from the queen...' This earned him a quick, flashing smile, and John took the momentary distraction as an opportunity to spray disinfectant on the wound, making Sherlock hiss. He could be suprisingly infantile as a patient. 'I know I'm going to regret asking, but why are you doing this?'

 

            'I wanted empirical proof that Mycroft is a better host for parasites and fungi.'

 

            'You're the only person I've ever met who does elabourate and extensive scientific research just to annoy someone.'

 

            'Oh, he does it too. When I was little, he conducted polymerase chain reactions to prove that we were, in fact, related. It was a deliberately mean thing to do – he knew I'd been conducting my own research in an attempt to prove he was an alien.'

 

            'I have trouble, sometimes, imagining you Mallory's age. You must have been a terror.'

 

            'Not really.' John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock looked away. 'I didn't really get along with people.'

 

            'What do you mean?'

 

            'Let's just say that Sally Donovan's labelling me _freak_ wasn't exactly original work.'

 

            'Children can be little bastards,' John murmured, beginning to bandage the hand. The back of Sherlock's hand, uninjured, was smooth and strong, and had it always been so big? That might explain why his mother had suggested he take up the violin. 'They used to call me Hedgehog.'

 

            'Because you resemble one?' Sherlock asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

 

            'I do not! I was a little chubby, and always the shortest one in the form, and I had unfortunate hair. It was not used endearingly... I think on some level I did the whole frontline doctor thing just to get rid of hedgehog comparisons.'

 

            'I can't speak for everyone else, but I will continue to make them.'

 

            'Well, that's not fair.' John's thumb ran over the soft skin at Sherlock's wrist, where the pale skin was transluscent and he could see blue veins. _Stopitstopitstopit just because you have a reason to touch him doesn't mean it's stopped being a bad idea.._ 'I'm never going to call you a freak, never going to believe it or let anyone else say it. So I'd expect a little more chivalry from you, protecting me from being likened to woodland creatures.'

 

            They were too close. Sherlock, despite looking perpetually as if he was carved from cold alabaster, was radiating a lot of heat, and he smelt like gunpowder, latex – from gloves, please let it just be gloves and not some bizarre condom experiment – and Pear's soap.

 

            He noticed, feeling a little blurry – hadn't he been angry, at some point? - that Sherlock was wearing John's favourite of his shirts, a deep purple thing at least a size too small, and the buttons were straining. He'd never understood that. A man so obsessed with tailoring should be able to afford shirts that fit, but Sherlock seemed devoted to his brave, industrial-strength buttons.

 

            A thought occurred, flirting with the edge of his mind, attempting to get back all of the years of issues, repression, neuroses and a heavily padlocked file labelled _Sherlock issues._

 

            Sherlock had to know John liked that shirt. He never missed anything.

 

            And he'd been trying to make tea. In Mallory's teacup.

 

            Those were too things John liked very much, too.

 

            What, exactly was going on?

 

            Interestingly, during this whole long pause in their lives when normally a million and one thoughts could flit through the great Holmes mind, the only thing which Sherlock was thinking was this:

 

            _this is going well, I think._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a maltese poodle meets an unexpected end.

That Tuesday, the bloody petri dishes were the least of the experiments Sherlock was devoting his intellect to. The other experiment, the investigation which was driving him insane with curiousity, was currently kneeling at his feet in front of the toilet with a bemused expression on its face.

 

            John Hamish Watson. The only one who had ever mattered.

 

            He'd told him he was married to his work, and had meant it, at the time. His life had been very simple. Quantifiable, predictable, easy. Boring.

 

            At first, the solution had posed itself before the question. Things had started to visibly improve in his living conditions, rather dramatically. Tea had been made, homicidal lunatics had been shot, laps had been offered to keep his feet warm. Well, not offered at first – it had been more the product of a stale-mate regarding Sherlock's favourite thinking position and John's favourite Doctor Who watching position – but since Sherlock had come home after the systematic destruction of Moriarty's empire, he offered.

 

            He shouldn't have spent so long away. He'd wanted to make certain that the people he cared about were safe, while all the while certain that the longer he spent away, the more likely it would be that they could stop caring about him. He'd expected to come back to John, married and happy, Mrs Hudson with a new someone to look after, even his brother with some government to destroy to keep him occupied.

 

            But he'd come back, and the only thing that had changed was that John looked older, and thinner, and had been guarded and angry.

 

            So angry. He'd thought that he'd done something unforgivable, and that the only person who had ever looked at him as though he was worth something didn't want him back.

 

            Everything had changed, and Sherlock didn't know how to make it right. It was John's job to tell him when he'd said or done something wrong, and hint at how to make it better.

 

            Being without John had been... sad.

 

            John blinked, shook his head like a puppy with water in its ears, and smiled. 'What is this all about, Sherlock?'

 

            'Tea?'

 

            'You've been acting weird since Mallory.'

 

            Sherlock had liked that little girl. Even though she'd suggested he put his hair in the same pretty cornrows her mother used to tame her wild afro, which hadn't been very helpful, she had given him a very good piece of advice.

 

            'I think you like him, like him,' she'd said, as she'd shown him her computer programming skills, her little fingers tapping so quickly they blurred. 'And you should do something about it.'

 

            'Something?'

 

            'You have to kiss. That's what happens, when you like someone.'

 

            The logic of this had seemed sound, particularly because he'd spent an unreasonably long time imagining doing just that. When John cracked his neck, he could spend upwards of twenty minutes sitting very still and stiff as a board imagining straddling the smaller man, running his hands up John's back, loosening the knots, releasing all of the tension which he carried on his broad shoulders. Pressing his mouth to the place where the scar tissue radiated out from an old wound, trying to suck out the poison, trying to heal him the way he healed Sherlock.

 

            Most of the time he spent in his thinking position, laid out on the sofa with his feet on John's lap and his fingers steepled, touching his lips, was spent imagining that he had the solid weight of John's body resting on his own, his head tucked beneath Sherlock's chin. He'd done some mental calculations, and had determined that it was a perfect fit. John Watson was mathematically designed to be a little spoon.

 

            He spent a lot of time imagining kissing John, and it was getting in the way of pretty much every other part of his life. He was sleeping more than he ever had, because he had started a subtle rotation process which allowed him to steal John's pillows just when they had absorbed enough of his scent to be comforting. He was eating, when it had never interested him before, because it made the doctor beam almost as brightly as he did when Sherlock deduced something, and occasionally this smile would be rewarded with a small, surprised, _brilliant._

 

            Sherlock had grown fond of that word. He'd also discovered that he liked things sweet, and that as soon as Watson had discovered this, honey had started appearing at strategic points throughout the flat. After he'd returned home – and they'd had _that_ dramatic, uncomfortable reunion – Sherlock had been unhealthily thin.

 

            He'd known that he was forgiven when the honey had begun to be accompanied by pastries, cupcakes, Rowntrees' fruit pastels and long-unused ashtrays full of skittles.

 

            He had found a little funeral pyre constructed of Cadbury's chocolate fingers hidden inside the skull the other day, and had eaten them extremely slowly, savouring them while he had dissected a foot.

 

            All of these things only served to make Sherlock feel as if he was being trained, but he didn't particularly mind. He wondered if John realised that he was starting to associate sugar with John's smiles of approval, and the arousal that those smiles always inevitably brought was becoming a little confused with his appreciation of confectionary.

 

            After a very long time of having only a passing interest in getting off, Sherlock Holmes was becoming obsessed with the idea of dipping his flatmate in various sugary substances.

 

            'Sherlock?' John sighed. 'Where's that mind gone now? Solving the Ripper murders?'

 

            'Oh, please. Been there, done that.'

 

            'You've been acting even weirder than usual. Do want me to ring Greg, get you some cold cases?'

 

            'Who?'

 

            'You know. Lestrade.'

 

            'I always thought he was more a sort of... Kenneth. Doesn't he look like a Kenneth?'

 

            John ignored this; Sherlock didn't really blame him. Trying to make normal, sentient conversation was never his strong suit, least of all when John was close enough to taste.

 

            'How does it feel?'

 

            'Distracting,' he answered honestly, earning him a bemused smile.

 

            'Your hand feels distracting?'

 

            'Amoungst other things. And there aren't any interesting cold cases, I've already asked.' He sighed. 'No one seems to be commiting any complicated homicides. I spent all of that time away, just living and breathing crime and hate... it gets tiring.'

 

            'I thought caring was a disadvantage,' John said, bitterness unexpectedly colouring his voice as he echoed Mycroft's idiotic credo.

 

            'John.' Without thinking it through – and that itself was strange, because before John he never touched anyone simply because he wanted to – he reached out to where his friend was rearranging the first-aid kit, wrapping a long-fingered hand around his arm. 'If ever I thought that, if ever I believed it, that belief ended when I met you.'

 

            'I've seen you care. People tell me I'm a fool for defending you, but I've seen you protect Mrs Hudson and be gentle to Molly when you'd hurt her. You're not good with people, but you're not cruel.' He sighed. 'I tried to hate you for leaving me, for putting me through what you did, but I couldn't. Not logically. I know why you did it, and I probably would have done the same thing. But you do understand, don't you? Logic hasn't got much to do with feelings, in the real world.'

 

            'I know that. I know you haven't forgiven me.'

 

            'No, I haven't. I don't know if I ever can.' Those eyes – usually so warm, usually turned on Sherlock with trust and loyalty – were cold. 'You didn't take me with you. You made the choice to leave me behind.'

 

            Sherlock's heart was trying to escape through his throat. He couldn't bear it; couldn't bear the way all of the fight seemed to have left John, or how tired he suddenly looked. His shoulders were hunched, as if there was a weight too heavy on them. His mind was moving a million miles an hour,  sifting through all of the lies he could tell and all of the facts he could share, trying to find something which could make this better. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

 

            'I had to keep you safe.'

 

            'I've killed for you!' John suddenly shouted. 'I've punched police officers and testified in court, mourned and suffered and nearly lost my goddamned mind. And you still made a choice, with that big fucking brain of yours, to leave me. You didn't think I could protect myself. That's what it comes down to.'

 

            'That's not-'

 

            'Shut up. Just shut up, Sherlock! It all comes down to you looking at me, weighing me and measuring me and making the informed decision that _I'm not good enough_. That I'm not enough, not equal to you. And I know, Sherlock. I know better than anyone how brilliant you are.' He stood tall, suddenly, the spine and stance of a soldier. A man who was strong, the man who Sherlock would do anything for. 'I made the mistake of thinking you needed me.'

 

            'I do.' It came out weak, soft, and he barely recognised his own voice. 'I need you.'

 

            John blinked, all of the fight suddenly gone from him. Sherlock was tempestuous and fickle, but John wasn't; when he was angry, he would yell and then it would be over with. All it took was one little statement, so bloody long coming, and the good doctor was suddenly a healer again, not a fighter.

 

            'What?'

 

            Sherlock stood, cradling his hurt hand, swaying a little on his feet. The bathroom didn't seem big enough for the both of them.

 

            'I don't cope very well with a lot of things, in case you haven't noticed. I used to use chemical highs, dope myself up to cope with the noise in my brain... I see everything, I notice everything, I can't help it and it hurts. All of the time. You... you quiet it all, John. You make it so much better. How could I risk you? How could I gamble with the only thing I've ever-'

 

            He bit his tongue, hard, wondering what was it about this small, strong man which made him act like a fool who couldn't marshal his own thoughts. Perhaps that was why John believed in his ability to care so much; John saw a side to him no one else did, simply because of Sherlock's completely inability to keep his mouth shut around him.

 

            It was theraputic. It was why he kept talking to him even when he wasn't there – it wasn't because he wasn't constantly aware of John, but because it was like purging his over-active head.

 

            'You've ever what, Sherlock?' John stepped closer, invading Sherlock's personal body space, and the taller man panicked, taking a step backwards and hitting his shins against the toilet painfully. 'What's this all about? Why were you messing about with that bloody teacup?'

 

            The words forced themselves past his tight, closed throat against his will.

 

            'You only ever touch me if I'm hurt.'

 

            John's eyes went wide, at the very moment that there was a knock on the door.

 

            'Are you two in there? Mrs Hudson let me in. It looks like a bomb's gone off in your living room.'

 

            The respectable doctor's use of profanity would have demonstrated to Sherlock time spent in the army, if he hadn't already known. There was a low chuckle from the other side of the door as Lestrade heard the muttered commentary on his mother and her sexual preferences.

 

            'Careful, Watson, Mrs Hudson'll wash your mouth out with soap.' Something occurred to the dim-witted detective, judging by a change in tone. 'Am I interrupting something?'

 

            'No,' Sherlock snapped, even as John bit out, 'yes, you bloody are.'

 

            'Good.' The door opened, and Greg beamed at them both, blissfully ignorant.

 

            'Do you two fancy doing something about a murdered maltese poodle?'


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a pastry is stolen.

'I don't know what you expect me to do, Sherlock.'

 

            'Do your doctor thing.' John had to sway slightly to avoid being thwacked in the eye as Sherlock gestured expansively. 'Cause of death and all that.'

 

            The two of them looked down at the little body, the thought occurring to both of them simultaneously that perhaps cause of death was sort of...obvious.

 

            'It hasn't got a head.'

 

            'She.' John blinked at his friend, who pointed a long finger at the collar lying between the head and the body. 'It's pink.'

 

            'No, it's red. Everything is red. Do you really expect me to examine the body of a dead poodle?'

 

            'She's not a poodle. She's a maltese – it's an entirely separate breed. And what if the head was severed in an attempt to distract from the real cause of death? Are you willing to allow yourself to be distacted by a dog murderer?'

 

            'No,' John said evenly, 'I'm allowing myself to be distracted by the fact that we're in the parade ring at Crufts.'

 

            Sherlock looked around them at the now empty stands, which only hours earlier had been filled with hundreds of dog fanciers. 'I'm getting the distinct impression that you're not on board with this investigation, John.'

 

            John fought the urge to yell and storm off – an urge he associated with Sherlock as much as the strange but determined urge to forcably silence the man using nothing but his tongue and teeth. There were more important things to be doing than standing in the centre of the doggy-display ring with a decapitated prize winner. On that list of things, quite apart from obvious ones such as solving real, people murders and watching Doctor Who, finishing their interrupted conversation from earlier was ranking quite highly.

 

             _You only ever touch me when I'm hurt_. Funny how a sentence that simple – when Sherlock rarely spoke simply – could change everything. It had been spoken in a soft, scared voice which John barely recognised, and it had given him something he hadn't even considered in the longest time.

 

            It had offered some tiny hint of hope.

 

            He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, thought about storming off in protest, and then gave in to the inevitable fact that he was useless at denying Sherlock anything and squatted down beside the dog.

 

            Lestrade wandered over, coffee in hand and with a mouthful of pastry. 'Any ideas? It's not really our division but seeing as everyone's still a bit nervy with you and crime scenes, I thought this was the closest you could get to a real, fresh body.'

 

            'Of course I have ideas,' Sherlock snapped, and grabbed the remainder of the pastry out of Lestrade's hand. 'Do you have information on motive for me?'

 

            Lestrade smiled jovially at John, who returned it. The two of them had begun, since Sherlock's return, to secretly feed the detective. One of the sure-fire ways of getting Sherlock to eat anything was to cover it in syrup and give it to Lestrade.

 

            'It was in line for best-in-show, which is some sort of enormously big deal for the breeder.'

 

            'Insured?'

 

            'What?' Lestrade echoed, coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

 

            'It must be worth twice its weight in gold. If you've dragged me away from home for an insurance scam, I am going to-' the last word was cut off by a massive bite of pastry, and might have been either  _I am going to sleep_ or  _I am going to scream_.

 

            'What was that?'

 

            'Doesn't matter,' John spoke up. 'There is no insurance fraudster on earth who wouldn't just run it over. This poor little thing was dead before it lost its head.'

 

            'Obviously,' Sherlock managed, once he'd swallowed. John found himself staring, his mind a little fuzzy, as the tall man licked marmalade from his cupid's bow. 'Look at the blood splatter. There's no way her heart was beating.'

 

            'Her?' Lestrade echoed.

 

            'Pink collar,' John and Sherlock both snapped impatiently.

 

            'Are you saying someone took its head for a reason other than to kill it?' John asked.

 

            'I have some theories. Get copies of the crimescene photos, would you? I have to go find a hardware store.'

 

            John stood, rolling his shoulder to loosen it; Sherlock's eyes followed the movement. Sherlock was constantly aware of John's old scar,always waiting for a sign that the limp which had returned after the fall was coming back. In the ride over from 221b and while making their way to the crimescene the consulting detective had been staring at John, although never meeting his eye. It was strange, and made John feel like squirming from mixed pleasure and embarassment, to know that the full force of that intellect was focused solely on him. The intrigue of the beheaded dog was offering a welcome distraction from all of that focused, confusing attention.

 

            'It's too much to hope, isn't it, that you're going to go find a way to put our living room curtain rail back together?'

 

            'Don't be ridiculous. I have to find a scythe, and then a butcher's. Indian for dinner?'

 

            John winced, glancing at the dead dog. 'Veggie for me.'

 

            He was at home a few hours later, staring at a blank screen on his blog, thinking about Sherlock's neck, when the man himself made a suitably dramatic entrance carrying a raw leg of lamb and a plastic bag full of Indian take-away.

 

            They stared at each other for a second, in stalemate. Sherlock had his collar popped so its dark points reached his ears and his hair was misted with rain, and belatedly John thought to wonder what he was supposed to say now.

 

            'I want to get drunk.'

 

            Sherlock stared at him, blue eyes wide and his body stiff, unsure of what was expected of him or if everything was ruined.

 

            'Sherlock? Put the... sheep leg in the fridge. We need drinks – many strong drinks.'

 

            For once in his damned life, Sherlock didn't argue, and disappeared into the kitchen as John retrieved two china teacups from where they sat next to the skull on the mantlepiece.

 

            'Do you have any idea what I'm doing?' he asked it, running his thumb over the eyesocket.

 

            He knew the answer to the question. Losing someone you love is all about losing potential; losing the potential to ever speak to them again, to ever say the things which always rested unsaid between you both. The potential to slip your healing hands into larger, dextrous white ones and run down dark London streets. The potential to ever learn their body, or know them better, or see the things under their surface which you know are there, but which you never quite earned the right to see.

 

            After the fall. After the fall, John had laid very still on the sofa, in the place where Sherlock used to lie. He had stared at the scarred ceiling, the skull resting on his belly – one last piece of a strange, morbid puzzle – and had thought.

 

            There's a lot of time to think, when depression and sorrow keep you tired, keep you from wanting to move or speak or even cry. Any movement seems pointless, shallow and a cruel pretense at living a normal life. How can I just eat and shower and keep on living, as if he was never here? As if he's not gone?

 

            And in that time of thinking,when a broken heart beat sluggishly behind strong ribs, John had thought of all of the things he would say and do if he ever saw Sherlock again. Because the worst of it, the reason he could never move on, was that he never truly believed it.

 

             _One last trick_

 

Having him back was a miracle, and after the earlier confrontation in the bathroom...

 

            There were things which needed to be said.

 

            John knocked back a finger of whiskey and gagged a little.

 

            If he was honest, he'd rather face a thousand bullets than tell the truth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which alcohol is consumed in a most untoward fashion, and we learn what Irene thought of the whole sorry affair.

'Truth.'

 

            'Are you sure?' John grinned and slipped a little lower on the sofa. 'I used to play this all the time at uni. I've got some nasty ones.'

 

            Sherlock attempted to help the smaller man rearrange himself, and wound up instead with John sort of half-colapsed on him. With a quick wiggle, John seemed to make himself comfortable, and chuckled.

 

            'You smell damp.'

 

            Sherlock sniffed. 'It was raining, and none of the cabs wanted me carrying a sheep's leg. Idiots.'

 

            'You might get a cold. Then the tip of your nose'll be all red.'

 

            Sherlock peered down at the beaming, drunken man in his arms. 'Your nose is red right now. Too much whiskey, I think. You should be diluting it, like I am.'

 

            'Travesty!' John gestured dramatically. 'It's an insult to good scotch, to mix it with apple juice! Not all of us are six-foot-tall babies who need their alcohol all sugary and sweet.'

 

            'Not all of us can hold our drink,' he replied, but he couldn't help smiling.

 

            Drunk John was sweet. Sweet, and completely unaware of personal body space; it was a potent mix, and as he wriggled deeper into the place between Sherlock's arm and the sofa back, his shirt rose up to expose a bit of soft belly.

 

            'Truth,' Sherlock repeated, and knocked back his drink, almost choking on it.

 

            'Was The Woman right?'

 

            Sherlock frowned at the mention of his ally and friend. Irene had guessed almost immediately that he was alive, and the texts had gone from flirtatious to downright abusive overnight.

 

            _Tell him._

 

_Tell him, or I fucking will._

 

_Tell him, so that you can get married and have his babies._

 

_Team Watson ftw_

 

_He misses you. You're an idiot._

 

_Let's have dinner, so I can explain all the ways he's too good for you._

 

_He's limping again. I'm trying hard not to hate you for that._

 

_Let's have dinner, so I can detail for you some of my more explicit visions for your reunion._

 

There had been a few messages after that one which had made him blush to the tips of his ears, and get so hard he'd had to retreat to a misty shower and try to clear his head by wrapping his long, dextrous fingers around an extremely distracting erection.

 

            _You're still not talking to me. Did you like my last suggestion? Go ahead and tell me John doesn't top like it's an art form._

 

            Oh, god, that one. When he was lying in bed, completely unable to sleep and holding tight to a pillow that smelt of John, he imagined his soldier, strong and proudly naked, standing over him.

 

            The dream-John always said the same thing, his voice low and steely in a way Sherlock had only heard a few times.

 

            ' _That was an order, Sherlock_.'

 

            'What do you mean, “was she right”? She's nearly as intelligent as I am, she's right about a lot of things.'

 

            'Are you a virgin?' John sat up straight, his gaze locked on Sherlock's. 'It's alright. There's no shame in it... I mean, I wouldn't judge you. I'd just like to know.'

 

            'Why?'

 

            John blushed. When Sherlock blushed, it was a hint of red at the points of sharp cheekbones and the tips of his ears; when John did, it was a bright, cheery red all over the older man's face.

 

            It was so damned cute. Sherlock wanted to lick the tip of his doctor's nose.

 

            'Technically, yes.'

 

            'What is that supposed to mean?' John lost his balance again and tried to support himself by pressing his hand into Sherlock's stomach.

 

            'Ooof.'

 

            'Is that all you've got to say for yourself?'

 

            'You don't get two truths! If you want another, you've got to earn it.'

 

            'Fine. Fine! Give me the bloody dice.'

 

            With a flamboyant gesture, John chucked the dice at the coffeetable, and then peered at them. 'Mwah-ha hah! Ladder! I get more truths!'

 

            Sherlock squinted at the snakes-and-ladders board, then shrugged and poured himself another applejuice and whiskey. 'This game is completely illogical. It's based on chance, not skill – whose idea was this?'

 

            'It was their this or some kind of drinking game involving Cluedo or Mass-Murderer TopTrumps, both of which have caused all kinds of trauma in the past.'

 

            'If they were sensible games, I wouldn't lose.'

 

            'If you didn't lose, you wouldn't drink, and I want you drunk.'

 

            Sherlock wasn't really following drunk-John's logic, but when he settled back down into what seemed his new favourite position against Sherlock's chest, he couldn't find it in him to question it.

 

            'What does “technically a virgin” mean in Sherlock-speak?'

 

            Sherlock squirmed, debating lying, but John suddenly sighed heavily and pressed his cheek to the place where his heart beat, one arm wrapping around his middle. Finally, Sherlock's hypothesis about John being the perfect size to fit against him was proved, and he was warm and smelled good, and no one ever touched Sherlock like this.

 

            As if he had something to offer, more than just his mind.

 

            'I've been kissed, and I've... experimented. I experience arousal, but I find sexual situations awkward. No one has ever interested me enough for me to let them... it's not necessary.'

 

            'It's completely necessary!' John waved a hand to demonstrate the point, then seemed to get distracted by it. 'How can you know if you've never tried? That's just poor scientific process. I think you should finish the experiment.'

 

            Sherlock attempted not to choke on his own tongue. Did John realise that he was currently the centre of just such an experiment? That he was the only person who Sherlock had ever wanted to touch and be touched by, the only one who didn't make him feel defensive or like a freak? There was no awkwardness, even though he was dimly aware that normal, straight men probably didn't get drunk and cuddle over a spirited game of snakes-and-ladders and discuss their sexual preferences.

 

            Luckily, there didn't seem to be any normal, straight men present.

 

            'I think,' John continued, propping himself up on Sherlock's chest so he could meet his eye, 'that you should try and find out if there's anything in it. Take it slowly, and learn your body. What you like.'

 

            'It would be awkward. It always is – I over analyse everything. I can read people too well, and they never seem to appreciate having their issues explained to them.'

 

            John laughed, low and warm in his chest. The vibrations of it went all the way to Sherlock's toes, which curled against the fabric of the union jack pillow.

 

            'I am very drunk,' he said, peering down at Sherlock.

 

            'Um... yes?'

 

            'Nothing that I say or do counts, because I am very drunk.'

 

            'Yes, you said.'

 

            'So we're decided. A decision has been reached.'

 

            'What decision? John, I-'

 

            'Good.' And with that, Sherlock found himself being very thoroughly kissed.

 

            That was the right way of putting it, because he was most certainly not in control of the situation. One of Johns hands was buried deep in his hair, while the other pressed against his chest, just below his throat, holding him still. Ready to pin him if he struggled; why was that thought so arousing? He was taller, but John was stronger and Sherlock didn't have enough experience in this to know how to take the lead.

 

            Which wasn't, apparently, a problem. John pulled his hair none-too-gently, and when Sherlock's mouth opened to protest John took advantage.

 

            He felt John's tongue against the palate of his mouth, tangling with his tongue, and tentatively pushed back, earning him a low, rumbling growl which made his stomach fill with heat and his eyes drift shut, lines forming on his forehead as he concentrated all of his attention on one John Watson, M.D.

 

            It was heat, and teeth, and tongue. He'd been kissed before, but the experience hadn't been like this. John kissed him without gentleness, kissed him as though he was hungry and desperate, wanting and angry. Kissed him like he was trying to prove a point.

 

            Whatever that point might be, Sherlock thought vaguely as he pulled the smaller man towards him by his hips, bringing their bodies together so that they lay as close as they could with their clothes still in a socially acceptable way, he found he agreed most enthusiastically.

 

            John's tongue stroked his own, and he sucked Sherlock's lower lip, biting it and then soothing the hurt with smaller, softer kisses. He moved above him, shifting ever-so-slightly so that he straddled one of Sherlock's legs, one of his own pressing down, and oh-

 

            Sherlock's mind, which had been a blur of noise and colour and conciousness ever since that dreary Wednesday when he'd come into the world, went a brilliant sort of blank. He broke away from the kiss to drag in a desperate breath, one hand rising to grab a handful of John's hair, only to have John move that very talented mouth to the place where his ear met his pulse.

 

            And he might never think again, now that he knew how it felt to have John H. Watson kiss and suck on his neck, his breath hot in his ear. He smelt of spice and whiskey, and Sherlock's hands roamed the expanse of his back, trying to find something to cling to.

 

            One of his hands found its way under John's jumper and, pulling his shirt free of his waistband, finally could press his palm to warm, soft skin.

 

            'Bloody hell, Sherlock,' John breathed, so close to his ear that Sherlock shivered all over with hot pleasure and shifted against John's leg, desperately seeking friction. 'Your neck. Do you know what I want?'

 

            Words. Sherlock was almost certain he still knew how to use them.

 

            'Tell me,' he managed, pulling John back, kissing him again because he wanted to, because it felt good and at long bloody last he had permission.

 

            'I want those scarves, that stupid collar you pop up, to be ways for you to cover marks I make on you. We'll be the only ones who know the real reason you do it, and every now and then when you're being brilliant and clever you'll remember, and remember how it felt when I marked you. I want to be able to distract you.'

 

            Sherlock found he couldn't breathe, when John suddenly dropped his head again, biting his shoulder and soothing the hurt with his tongue.

 

            'I want to force your mind away from blood and cruelty and death. I want you to be like me, and be struck dumb at the weirdest moments by sudden, impossible heat and need.' John chuckled, and pulled on Sherlock's hair again, his fingers pressing into the curve of his skull. 'I want to be able to give you something no one else can. I can't lose you again, Sherlock.'

 

            'Won't have to. Need you, John. Please...'

 

            John moved again, pressing his knee against Sherlock's erection, making him gasp and his eyes fly open, sightlessly staring up at John's focused, intense expression. 'You have to tell me if it's too much. I've waited a long time, Sherlock. I don't want to scare you – you have to tell me if it gets too intense, or if I hurt you. We can take it slow.'

 

            The idea of slow was completely bizarre, but after a moment of no more touching or kissing, Sherlock's mind cleared enough for him to register what John was saying.

 

            'Just... can we keep doing this? Just kissing? This is good.' He smiled, his face actually hurting from it – he felt like this was a new smile, one he'd never had cause to use before. 'This is really good. Isn't it?'

 

            John leant down, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, chaste and sweet. He felt, rather than saw, the doctor's smile.

 

            'This is perfect.'

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is an awkward hangover, and a gift.

Wednesday morning dawned, bright and warm, and bringing with it a hangover so massive it had its own centre of gravity.

 

            John lay very still on the sofa, eyes tight shut against the light, because he was almost certain that if he moved any part of his body he would die.

 

            What the fuck had he been thinking?

 

            It had been that stupid expression of vulnerability on Sherlock's face in the bathroom yesterday. It had broken John, and forced him to face the fact that he wanted more from his friend than just friendship. Losing him, believing him dead... it had changed everything. And John was a lot of things, but a coward was not one of them.

 

            If he wanted something, if he knew exactly what it would take for him to be happy, he'd be damned if he'd just sit still and do nothing for fear of rejection.

 

            So he'd taken three-too-many shots of golden dutch courage and stuck his tongue down his flatmate's throat.

 

            He groaned, and rolled onto his side, away from the light. God, poor Sherlock. Sherlock, with his disgusting applejuice concoction, hadn't been anywhere near as drunk as John had, which meant...

 

            Well, he wasn't sure what it meant. That Sherlock had actually wanted to be kissed? That it hadn't really been an assault, because Sherlock was mostly sober? But the man was still unused to physical relationships, and John felt a little dirty for having thrown himself so enthusiastically at his friend.

 

            Not that the friend in question seemed to mind.

 

            God, he wanted to puke and eat a bacon sandwich and be swallowed by the floor, not necessarily in that order. He had, in one misguided groping, completely changed his relationship with the most important person in the world to him. Sherlock was capable of deleting, of comparmentalisation. If he didn't like what had happened, or if he decided he wasn't interested in sex at all, John was quite certain that the detective could just go on with his life, merrily unaware of what he was missing.

 

            His drink-addled mind focused – just long enough to give him an inconvenient jolt of arousal – on the soft, desperate noise Sherlock had made when John pulled his hair.

 

            If John screwed this up, he was going to get his heart broken. Well.

 

            He closed his eyes tight and contemplated just dying, getting it all over with so he wouldn't have to face Sherlock ever again. Fuck a duck, he was in far too deep.

 

            His shoulder hurt like a sonofabitch and he sat up, cursing colourfully and quietly so as not to aggravate his headache. As he rolled it, popping the joint, he remembered falling asleep on Sherlock's chest, his lips soft and swollen and Sherlock's hand awkwardly, experimentally sifting through his hair.

 

            Where had the lanky bastard got to? His gaze settled on the coffeetable, the centre of inter-flatmate communication, and sure enough found his answer.

 

            A little white plastic sheet of caffeine-and-ibuprofen pills – God bless us, every one – sat beside a bottle of Lucozade and a note.

 

            Sherlock's handwriting was ridiculous, all smooth curls and flourishes; the kind of handwriting you only had if you'd had it beaten into you by a boarding school master.

 

            _Gone to Battersea. Don't do anything idiotic until I am home to perform damage control – alternatively, if convenient, meet at_ Angelo's _1300h? SH_

 

Then, clearly as an afterthought as the handwriting was much messier and in biro rather than  in the ink of Mycroft's stolen fountainpen, _I looked up hangover cures. Mrs Hudson has agreed to cook you breakfast if you ask nicely._

 

            John swallowed the painkillers, washed them down with the repulsive sports drink and realised that he was almost certainly in love with a self-professed sociopath.

 

            It was hard not to be. The man had arranged for a bacon sandwich to be made. John considered whether this made him a little bit slutty, but at that moment in time he was willing to propose to Mrs Hudson if she would provide him with fried goods.

 

            She tutted and fussed over him when he finally staggered into her kitchen, but sure enough, a full breakfast was before him in moments.

 

            'Sherlock was in quite a tizzy this morning,' she said pleasantly, 'stormed in here like a hurricane and told me I had to look after you, because he had to go and see a man about a dog.'

 

            'You always take care of us, Mrs Hudson.'

 

            'Of course I do, you're my boys,' she smiled, shifted more bacon on to his plate and settled down opposite him with a mug of tea. 'How has it been, since he came back? It mustn't be easy. After all, whatever his reasons, he still hurt you.'

 

            'We're... sorting through some things. If it's going to work between us, he needs to see me as a partner, not an assistant.'

 

            She nodded sagely. 'I know how that can be. My late husband expected me to do everything for him, but he never thought much of me. That's not love, is it? It's just... I don't know. Being used, I suppose. Settling for second best.'

 

            John thought about protesting, yet again, that he was not Sherlock's live-in lover. Then he shrugged and stuffed some scone into his mouth. Around the crumbs, he managed, 'I became a doctor to help people.' He swallowed. 'I know I've got a hero complex, I didn't need my therapist to point that one out to me. I think that's why most people think I stay with him, but it isn't. I don't want to save him, or cure him; that's an insult to him. I just want him happy.'

 

            'We all do, dear. That's why I hide his little bits and bobs – he needs to be kept occupied. And that ill-mannered brother of his wants the same thing, even if he goes about it in a strange way. He just wants Sherlock happy.'

 

            John did believe that about Mycroft, which was the sole reason he had yet to beat the man up with his own stupid umbrella. 'You're a goddess, you do know that, don't you?'

 

            She smiled again and sipped her tea. 'So I've been told, doctor.' Putting the cup down, she leant a little forward, intelligence flashing in her gentle eyes. 'I haven't seen him as animated as he was this morning in a very long time, John. There was colour in him, and he even ate the scone I gave him. Whatever you're doing, I suggest that you keep it up. I know that he needs all these toes and crimes and things, to keep him busy – it's his calling, and that's lovely – but it does make me a little sad, sometimes. I think he deserves to have a bit of life, and some joy that doesn't come from a needle.'

 

            This was so similar to what John had whispered in Sherlock's ear the night before, when he'd had his knee pressed against a very impressive erection, that colour rose to the good doctor's cheeks.

 

            Mrs Hudson beamed at him, and couldn't wait to tell Mrs Dasgupta across the way that her boys were finally, at long bloody last, getting down to the important business of the happily-ever-after Mrs Hudson had planned for them all along.

 

            At ten to one, feeling a lot less delicate but still wearing dark glasses and unshaven, John pushed open the door to _Angelo's_ , and wash immediately ushered by its good proprietor into the booth by the window he'd sat in on his first visit.

 

            'Coffee,' John managed, resting his forehead on his hand and willing the room to stay still. 'Much, strong coffee, Angelo.'

 

            Angelo chuckled darkly, but obeyed the captain's orders, reappearing moments later with a caffetiere – John hadn't even realised there was anything but Nescafé in the restaurant – a jug of milk and a bowl of sugarlumps.

 

            'Rough night, doctor?'

 

            'You have no bloody idea.'

 

            'I've got some idea. Sherlock burst in here this morning with a raw leg of lamb for me, told me I was welcome to it if I wanted it. Am I gonna get to read this one on the blog? It's been a bit slow since that awful incident with the lunatic midget.'

 

            John stared at him. 'Lunatic midget?'

 

            'You know, the one with the whole tongue-thing who broke all those people out of prison and forced poor Sherlock to fake his own death.' Angelo waved expansively to demonstate the point, and said some unflattering things in Greek. 'I loved that entry you did when he came back. Made me cry, it did.'

 

            'Angelo, I'm shorter than Moriarty was.'

 

            'Yeah, but you're a nice boy, all cute and cuddly. Lunatics don't wear jumpers like yours, _moro mou_.' Angelo patted him on the head. 'I'll bring you baklava. Best hangover cure I know.'

 

            _Cuddly? Cute_? John was so surprised that he forgot to add coffee to his milk and sugar. Why did people keep forgetting he was a sharpshooter vetran with a load of medals in a drawer somewhere?

 

            Sherlock, carrying a big box full of holes, collapsed opposite John, beaming.

 

            'Angelo just called me cuddly.'

 

            'You are cuddly. Is he bringing baklava?'

 

            'I am not bloody _cute_.'

 

            'Yes, you are. Extremely. It's a little sickening, how cute you are. How are you feeling?'

 

            'Like death warmed over. What does _moro mou_ mean?'

 

            Sherlock's irritating smile widened. 'It means _my baby.'_

 

John slammed his cup down and added coffee to it. 'I am no man's baby! I am not cute and cuddly, and I could be a lunatic midget if I so chose!'

 

            'I'm sure you could,' Sherlock agreed, now looking a little bemused. 'You don't take sugar in your coffee.'

 

            John scowled at his coffee, and then shoved it across the table at the detective, who merrily lifted it to his lips and took a delicately slurping sip.

 

            'You know, Sherlock, the only thing I've ever seen you actually look forward to eating is Angelo's baklava.'

 

            'I don't understand it any more than you do. I even experimented on it for a while – I thought he might be drugging me. Turns out I just really enjoy having things covered in honey.' Sherlock smiled, a tiny, sexy little half-smile.

 

            John's mind went immediately somewhere desperately inappropriate, where a novel method for increasing Sherlock's calorie intake was being tried and tested.

 

            'John? John, are you listening to me?'

 

            'No, not at all,' he murmured in response, picking up the coffee Sherlock had put down and raising it to his own lips, drinking the contents in a daze.

 

            'Right.' Sherlock _clicked_ his fingers, trying to get John's attention back on him. 'I know your body is still struggling through the after effects of alcohol abuse, but I would have thought by now you would ask me what is in this box.'

 

            John put down the coffee and scowled, though the worst of the evils were hidden by his dark glasses. 'If you'd just matched me drink for drink last night instead of _mixing whiskey with applejuice_ – which, by the way, I'm pretty sure is illegal – then you would be suffering to an equal degree and I wouldn't currently want to kill you.'

 

            Sherlock looked a little hurt by this. 'Why do you want to kill me? I've brought you a present! I brought you painkillers and Lucozade and made sure Mrs Hudson would feed you. I, dear Watson, am being _very nice to you today_.'

 

            He said that last as if it had some deeper meaning, but John was too hungover to care. However, he wasn't so far gone that he didn't realise he was acting like a bitch, so he apologised.

 

            'Sorry, you're right. You are being nice, and I'm acting like a bastard. Why did you have to go to Battersea, by the way?'

 

            'I met one of the breeders there – she wanted to give me some information for the case, and she helped me get access to a couple of malteses to experiment.'

 

            John felt a little ill. 'Tell me that they're all safe and still in possession of their heads.'

 

            'Of course they are.' Sherlock gave him a haughty, scathing look. 'I know you have a soft spot for dogs.'

 

            'I'm almost certain even someone who hated dogs would still be anti-dog beheading.'

 

            ' _Anyway,'_ the scowl deepened at the interruption, 'you've hit upon the reason behind your present. Here you go.'

 

            With a flourish, Sherlock dumped the box he'd arrived carrying on the table between them. His expression was somewhat rabid with anticipation, and John was half-expecting to find a body part when he lifted off the lid.

 

            Instead, a flurry of stocky limbs and jowls threw itself at him. When he finally managed to pin the creature down, holding it up under its little forelegs, it grinned at him, tongue lolling.

 

            John Watson stared at the little bull pup, and the bullpup stared back.

 

            Sherlock sighed contentedly, correctly deducing that he had managed to engineer love at first sight, and that his present was a distinct success.

 

            'John, this is Gladstone.'

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover exactly what is necessary.

'Where did you get her? Aw, sweetheart, stop licking me. Gladstone, down!' Sherlock watched the two of them, John and the puppy, squirming together. John's glasses had fallen down, his hangover obviously forgotten, and Angelo shot Sherlock an approving thumbs-up as he placed a plate of baclava in the middle of the table. 'Sherlock, we can't look after a puppy. Have you thought this through?'

 

            'Not really,' he said honestly, picking out a little pastry square. 'There wasn't time to think it through. She has a liver-coloured nose; she's imperfect in the show world, and they were going to have her put down.'

 

            'What?' John almost shouted, startling Gladstone into stopping squirming. They both looked at Sherlock with accusing pouchy eyes. 'They were going to...'

 

            He covered Gladstone's ears and whispered, 'put her to sleep? Just for having a brown nose?'

 

            'It's a cutthroat business, and I just... liked her. I know it's going to be difficult, but I'm at home most of the time, and I don't think Mrs Hudson will mind.' His mouth full of honey, he watched John rub the small dog's belly and felt irrationally jealous. 'Is it alright?'

 

            John looked up, and his smile was like sunshine, warming Sherlock through, who hadn't until that moment realised how worried he'd been that John would be angry, either about the puppy or because he regretted what they'd done last night.

 

            'It's perfect,' the doctor said softly, echoing his words from the night before, and Sherlock felt himself blush. 'She's perfect. She's the single ugliest creature I've ever seen.'

 

            It was hard to tell if this was affectionate or not, so Sherlock just unwound his red wool scarf and stuffed another piece of baklava into his mouth. Slowly he became aware that John's hands had stopped moving, and he was staring with a certain amount of intensity at Sherlock's neck.

 

            At that moment, the good doctor was neither cute, nor cuddly. Despite the chubby English bulldog pup licking his chin. John looked almost predatory, and Sherlock compulsively swallowed, his mouth dry.

 

            John watched the movement, his gaze moving from the blooming purple lovebite he'd left on Sherlock's neck to the man's honey-sticky mouth, and then finally to his eyes.

 

            'I considered freaking out this morning,' he said conversationally, his voice low and warm.

 

            'Really? But... you decided not to?'

 

            'I used my deduction skills, and recalled some of the data I collected last night. I was afraid that I scared you-'

 

            Sherlock huffed indignantly – he was not a man easily scared, but went silent when John shot him a look. Any protests he'd been about to air died in his throat; how was it that this man was the sole person in all the world with the ability to shut Sherlock Holmes up with a mere glance?

 

            'I was afraid I came on a little... strong.'

 

            He opened his mouth to argue again, to express a desire that both of them proceed to a different venue where Gladstone could be dropped off with a puppysitter while her daddies found new and interesting ways to _come on a little strong_. Again, John silenced him with a quelling look.

 

            'And then I remembered that amoungst mere mortals, I'm quite clever, and perfectly capable of doing some deduction of my own.' With the hand that wasn't holding the squirming puppy in his lap, John reached across the table and touched the back of Sherlock's hand, wrapped around the mug of coffee they were sharing. 'What I'm trying to say – not very well – is I want you, and I think you want me too, at least physically. I know that's not your area of expertise, but it is mine, and we can go as slowly as you want. But I'm not letting you go, not again.'

 

            'What if it goes wrong?' Sherlock managed. John's hand had now removed Sherlock's from the mug, and his thumb was tracing patterns over the detective's wrist and palm.

 

            'Then we can be friends, and colleagues. I'm not going to leave you, no matter what. This doesn't have to be complicated, Sherlock.'

 

            He rolled his eyes. 'Things are always complicated. If it seems like they're not, you're just not looking closely enough.'

 

            'Don't you think you're missing data on a crucial facet of human interaction? Let me teach you. Darling, don't eat that.'

 

            Sherlock started, and then realised this comment was directed at Gladstone, and not at him for trying to stuff another piece of baklava into his mouth. And then he scowled at the puppy, for the completely irrational reason that Gladstone was _darling_ and Sherlock was just... Sherlock.

 

            'I tried and failed to get you drunk last night, so that I'd have the guts to tell you I have this recurring dream involving one of Irene's riding crops, your scarf and a jar of Nutella. You do realise you can be rather intimidating when you're sober? Drunk Sherlock is much easier to speak honestly to.'

 

            'Nutella?' Sherlock whispered.

 

            'I had a lot of time to think while you were gone, and I realised that more than anything I regretted never kissing you. No matter what you would have said or done afterwards, I just regretted not kissing you, just once.'

 

            'Riding crop?' Sherlock uttered reverently.

 

            'You told me, sitting in this booth, that you're married to your work. No room for anything else in your life. Am I wrong to think that might have changed? I mean, we have a puppy now. That's commitment, of a sort...' he trailed off, the surety and desire in his eyes fading to something softer, and both his hands moved to hold Gladstone to him. Sherlock felt bereft at the loss.

 

            Oh, god, was he turning into a _hand-holder?_ Was he going to be one of those vile people who wandered down the street with his hand intertwined with his lover's?

 

            Actually, that sounded rather nice. Women – and, particularly on one occasion when a case had taken them to a prominent gay bar, men – were drawn to John. He was a handsome doctor, gentle, kind. Sherlock understood that the man he wanted was a catch, and that he therefore had to take him off the market if he wished to keep him for his own.

 

            Especially now that he knew how well John kissed. He could only assume that the myriad of girlfriends he had seen come and go from their lives were all soft in the head, for chosing to leave a man with such a talented tongue.

 

            His mind, until moments ago focused on developing complex scenarios for the stimuli John had presented by explaining his dream, began to work on ways he could mark the doctor as _property of Sherlock Holmes._

 

            He was putting a lot of effort into _being very nice to John_. This was phase two of his plan, and was particularly crucial as he was aware that John knew all about sex and things, whereas Sherlock had no experience, only enthusiasm. If he was to keep John interested in teaching him – and he had only the evidence of a briefly-felt erection against his leg the night before that Sherlock had any natural talent – he had to be nice.

 

            John would have a hangover, so Sherlock – who rarely slept much – had left the warmth of their shared sofa to fetch painkillers and sports drinks from the corner shop. John would be hungry, so Sherlock had warned Mrs Hudson that her services would be required. John liked looking after things, and liked dogs, and there had been an extra dog ready and willing to be a present.

 

            'My work... it's still important. Very important. But my time away, my fight with Moriarty, they made me rethink things. I was arrogant, and self-absorbed; perhaps if I had realised what he meant when he said he would burn the heart out of me, I would have protected you better.' Sherlock took an elegant sip of the now-cool coffee. 'The realisation I had, on that roof, that I would do anything to keep you safe... I think that, perhaps, my position has changed. You know how difficult I am, how I don't respond to people the way that you do. I never thought I would have anyone actually want to...'

 

            He trailed off, focusing on Gladstone chewing John's sleeve rather than looking in his friend's eyes.

 

            'You never thought anyone would want to stay with you?'

 

            He felt his skin colour again and wondered if he would ever stop blushing. 'Why would they?'

 

            'Because you're a great man, and I believe you're a good one, too. Because you're really, really pretty. Seriously. I didn't think anyone looked like you outside of the kind of magazines which made me feel pudgy. You're extraordinary. How can you not realise that?'

 

            'Pretty?' Why did he spend so much time parroting back John's ridiculous statements? And did he realise that he was almost certainly the only person in the world capable of making Sherlock's mind short circuit? 'Everyone apart from you, John, just calls me freak, or difficult, or a dozen other pointless adjectives.'

 

            John picked up one of the last pieces of baklava and licked it with the tip of his curious tongue, before popping it in his mouth. Sherlock promptly forgot whatever it was they'd been talking about, and instead said,

 

            'I don't think we have any nutella at home.'

 

            John's smile was wicked. 'We can get some on the way back. We'll have to get some things for this little princess, anyway. I'll be damned if she'll drink out of a petri dish – you're not about to kill our dog with a flesh eating bacterium.'

 

            'Only you could decide that a dog that ugly is a princess.'

 

            John brandished Gladstone, who drooled a little. 'Look at her! She exudes nobility!' Pulling her back against his body, he stood up and leant over Sherlock, strong and sure doctor's hands cupping his chin and tilting his head to the side. 'Does it hurt? I didn't mean to mark you so hard.'

 

            'I like it.' John released his chin. 'Makes me think about what happened when I got it.'

 

            John bent low, the dog pressed between the both of them, and it was a strangely exciting thing to suddenly be the shorter one of the two of them. While Gladstone squirmed, John slowly took Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth, pulling on it gently and tracing a complex swirling pattern with that explicit, perfect tongue.

 

            'J-john...'

 

            'We're going to try something tonight, once we've settled this little lady in and I feel a little less as if my liver is about to pack in and die. We're going to play a game, where you have to tell me exactly what to do to you, and where, and how fast.' His breath was sending shivers down Sherlock's whole body, right down to where his toes curled in his shoes. 'I'm determined to be the first person to render the great Sherlock Holmes completely speechless.'

 

            With that, John pulled Sherlock to his feet, grabbed the scarf off of the seat next to him and wrapped it around the taller man's neck, fingers lingering at the mark he had made. Completely uncaring that the whole restaurant was watching – and wasn't that incredible, that John didn't care who knew that they were togther? - John stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's jaw.

 

            'Come on then,' he said pleasantly, and the last thing Sherlock saw as he was marched double-time out of the restaurant was Angelo's beaming face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladstone Persephone Adler and Company

 

 

            John rested his head against the shower wall, letting the almost too-hot water run down over his shoulders and back. For the first time in a long time, his shoulder wasn't bothering him, and he felt the giddy heart-pounding excitement of a small boy at Christmas.

 

            Sherlock Holmes, he of the changeable slanted eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones, was going to let John touch him.

 

            Scratch that. Birthday _and_ Christmas.

 

            There was no doubt in John's mind that the detective was playing nice. Going shopping for hangover cures, wearing John's favourite silk shirts, and the bizarre entrance of Gladstone Persephone Holmes-Watson into their lives... John felt almost as if he were being wooed, and it felt sort of wonderful.

 

            (a text had arrived while the two men had been dazedly following a shop assistant around _Pets4Eva_ , which had said, _Persephone, if you're looking for baby names. Irene Persephone Adler.)_

 

            And although Sherlock had informed the poor shop assistant that he had chlamydia and his girlfriend was cheating on him, and they had gotten into a spirited argument of how Irene had known Sherlock was alive all this time and _no one had thought to tell John_ , it had still been a successful trip. Sherlock had been nearly pleasant to at least two people, and when the pretty girl at the till had been completely unable to form people words in the presence of his beauty, he had stepped back and allowed John to speak to her instead of being mean.

 

            Gladstone now had some shiny, stainless-steel bowls which sat on a Union Jack plastic mat in the kitchen, a specially designed diet which Sherlock was going to experiment on (but only if he promised to keep the experiment separate from the food the dog ate), a pink collar with little spikes on ('just because she's feminine, John, doesn't mean she'll take nonsense from anyone'), an extendible leash and a present Lestrade had dropped off about an hour earlier.

 

            'I heard the good news!' Greg had beamed, dumping the massive carrier bag onto the sofa. 'You've adopted!'        

 

            'She's not a baby, Greg.'

 

            'Near as. Babies chew on things less, you'll find. How are things with you and the mister?'

 

            John gave up protesting his red-blooded hetersexuality in favour of venting a few grievances about his red-blooded Sherlock-sexuality. (Which was almost certainly a thing – the man had turned both John and Irene, both of them while being blissfully ignorant of the crippling effect the junk in his trunk had on people.)          

 

            'Well, I'm living with a man who thinks it's perfectly alright to bring home severed body parts and bulldogs and has a brother who is almost certainly watching us day and night by video surveillance. On the other hand, I was bloody miserable without him, and he has really nice hair, so I think I'm stuck with him. Tea?'

 

            'Yes, please. Is this the little lady here? Hello, beautiful.'

 

            'Hello yourself, Lestrade.' Sherlock's warm baritone made John grin as he put the kettle on. 'May I have a cup, John?'

 

            'Only if you play nice.'

 

            'Don't be absurd, it's only Lestrade.'

 

            Judging by the cooing, incoherent noises, either Lestrade was making friends with Gladstone or he was going to get bitten very soon for calling Sherlock a _lovely little girly_.

 

            'John, she won't stop following me around. She keeps trying to climb in my lap and lick my face!' Sherlock had appeared at this elbow, looking affronted. Sure enough, he was joined moments later by Gladstone lolloping across the floor and Lestrade, wiping slobber off of his chin.

 

            'Well, you do smell like lamb. Be nice, sweetheart.'

 

            'I am being nice!' Sherlock had cried, throwing his long arms in the air in frustration. John and Lestrade had stared at him. 'Oh. You were talking to Gladstone, weren't you?'

 

            The dog whimpered expectantly at the mention of her name and Lestrade had chuckled. 'I've brought you boys a present, from the force.'         

 

            'What is it?' Sherlock snapped at the same moment that John had asked, 'who told you?'

 

            'Detective Morastan down in dog squad said you rang her about puppy diets? At first I thought it was something to do with the case, but she seemed certain and they'd put together a collection.' Turning to Sherlock, Lestrade had said, 'come on, I'll show you.'

 

            It was as ridiculous as it was perfect; a black, fleece-lined dog bed, pattered with grinning white skulls. Lured with a chew treat, Gladstone had settled happily into it, and Lestrade had said his goodbyes and gotten back to work, suggesting to Sherlock on his way out that he solve the Case of the Maltese Head before the conspiracy theories in the papers got too out of control.

 

            Sherlock had promptly disappeared, leaving John to a pleasant afternoon of sitting with a cup of tea and Gladstone chewing on his slippered foot as the good doctor updated his blog, and then spent a pleasant few hours sifting through the _Wolfstar Skank_ tag on tumblr.com.

 

            Sherlock didn't seem to appreciate John's love of JK Rowling, and understood even less what John had meant when he'd entered a giddy, enthusiastic conversation with a teenaged client who, too, was a self-professed Shoeboxer.

 

            He rubbed a dollop of Sherlock's expensive girly shampoo into his hair and wondered if tonight was going to be the beginning or the end. He'd been with men before, in a couple of ill-fated teenaged encountered which had raised more questions than they'd answered, but had dismissed it as a rebellious period. He didn't know how to be with someone like Sherlock, someone so new to all of this, someone so cerebral and whom he could not – would not – risk losing.

 

            A lot was riding on tonight, but when he thought about how responsive Sherlock was beneath his hands, beneath his mouth... he didn't feel nervous. Maybe he should, but the rightness of this – of finally being allowed to touch the man he'd wanted for so long the wanting was a part of him as crucial as his twisted heart – filled him with eagerness. With anticipation.

 

            After all, if this didn't go exactly right, well, John was willing to practice. A lot, and often. Tonight was about teaching Sherlock to need this, to crave it as much as John did.

 

            He stepped out of the shower, drying himself and wrapping a towel around his waist. He inspected himself in the misted mirror, and not for the first time that day, wondered why – and if – Sherlock saw anything in him.

 

            With a sigh, he shaved quickly and pushed open the bathroom door, into Sherlock's room.

 

            Which was, stunningly, extemely tidy. Not a petri dish in sight. Sherlock lay on the bed, several buttons of his grey silk shirt open, reading a medical journal as Gladstone slept by his bare feet. Whenever Sherlock was thinking intently, his long toes curled and relaxed rhythmically, and he hummed under his breath. Rachmaninov.

 

            John's stomach tightened with want, and he considered just jumping the other man's bones immediately, but instead he said, 'you shouldn't let her onto the bed, Sherlock.'

 

            Sherlock closed the journal, and gave John an innocent look. 'She _whimpered_. And she has these big _eyes_ , John!' His innocent look changed to something different when he took in John's wet hair and the towel riding low on his hips, and John shivered under his gaze.

 

            'Well, that's not fair. I thought you wre going to be the strict one! She has to have discipline, or she'll grow up with some kind of puppy personality disorder.' The two men stared at Gladstone, who rolled over in her sleep and twitched her legs. 'Oh, god, that's cute.'

 

            He sighed, and turned around, grabbing his sofa pyjama bottoms – the only present he'd ever gotten from Harri he actually liked – and pulling them on, very aware that Sherlock was staring at his backside as he did so.

 

            He silently blessed the military habits which meant he kept his body tight, despite the sheer quantity of sugar that he had to keep in the flat to keep Sherlock fed. The man only ever seemed to want to eat if he could take the food away from someone else, particularly Mycroft or John. Boring, painful and repetitive exercise routines were suddenly worth it, to feel Sherlock's gaze hot and focused on his back as he flexed and bent.

 

            'Your scar... it's shaped like a star.'

 

            And then Sherlock was behind him, pressing his long body against John's back. Soft fingertips – so unlike John's callused, dextrous fingers – traced the pattern of the healed-over wound. Sherlock pressed closer, and their bodies were meant for his. Sherlock's arousal pressed into the small of John's back, his left arm snaked around to press its palm against John's belly, just resting there.

 

            The other hand, tracing the mark the bullet had made, went still, suddenly. Tentative lips took its place, that exquisite mouth with its deep cupid's bow and wide, full lower lip, tasting and learning the mark which had brought John here.

 

            'I've read your file. You died, twice... they thought you'd never come out of the coma.' The words ghosted over John's skin, and he pressed his hand to Sherlock's, leaning back into the taller man's warm embrace. 'I can't stand to think of you hurting like that, but I hurt you too. Mycroft has this favourite Oscar Wilde quote: “ _yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard; the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword!_ ”. I never believed it, but when the time came, I couldn't protect you from being hurt.'

 

            John turned in his arms, wrapped  both his own around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. 'You're an idiot,' he murmured, nuzzling down into his love's shoulder. 'You kept me alive. Hell, you brought me back to life, after the war. I'll never regret anything that brought me here.'

 

            One of Sherlock's hands pressed low on John's back, the very tips of his fingers sliding under the waist band of his pjyamas, and the other cupped John's chin, bringing him closer for a deep, searching kiss.

 

            Kissing Sherlock Holmes was extraordinary; a whole new use for the science of deduction, and all of that impossible intelligence completely focused on John. John knew that Sherlock needed to lead this time, needed to express something he couldn't vocalise, and he let the hand at his jaw guide him, gentle him.

 

            Sherlock's tongue was seeking and gentle, but after a moment of those fingers moving in soft spirals at his back were driving John insane, and he pressed closer, reaching up to pull Sherlock down to him.

 

            Slowly, he pulled away just enough so that their noses still touched, but he could slide a hand along his love's breastbone, undoing the buttons. 'Do you still want this?'

 

            'More than anything.' Sherlock's voice was like woodsmoke. 'You said... I would be in control?'

 

            John's smile was slow and dark. 'More or less. What do you want, love?'

 

            Sherlock pulled away for a moment, and then grinned, swooped down and kissed John, deep and fast. 'Undress me. Please?'

 

            John ran his hands up that impossibly pale expanse of chest, pushing the grey silk off of Sherlock's shoulders, and coming to rest of the waistband of the expensively tailored trousers Sherlock wore.

 

            'More,' Sherlock commanded, his own hands sinking deeper, cupping John's arse.

 

            John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's collarbone and sucked, feeling the detective shiver with pleasure as he did so. 'Do you still think this is unnecessary? God, Sherlock, I don't ever want to stop touching you.'

 

            He undid the fastenings and pressed his thumbs to the soft skin of Sherlock's hipbones, letting him guide his head back up to another deep kiss. Together, they tumbled onto the bed, and ridiculously – like a freaking romance heroine – John's heart stuttered and skipped a beat when Sherlock's face was above his, smiling.

 

            'Then don't stop,' Sherlock said softly, kissing him again. Their mouths open, sharing breath, he made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. 'Don't ever stop.'


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Mrs Hudson is forced to increase the volume to antisocial levels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was my very first fanfiction, and my very first-est attempt at writing porn of any shape or description. Just... bear that in mind.

John rolled him over, pinning him, and Sherlock traced the line of his bicep with his tongue, fascinated by the taste and texture.

 

            'Sherlock,' the doctor murmured, his breath catching as Sherlock bit the hard swell of a muscle, 'oh, god.'

 

            Nothing had ever sounded so good. Not the sound of new strings in his violin, or Mycroft when he'd been outsmarted, or John when he looked surprised and exclaimed, _brilliant._

 

            Sherlock was nothing if not a slave to positive re-enforcement. If making John's breath catch made Sherlock feel this good, then he would need to devote a great deal of time into making absolutely bloody certain it happened on a regular basis.

 

            Sherlock allowed himself to be drawn into another hot, sliding kiss – teeth and tongues and why did it feel so good, just on the very knife edge of pain? - and almost lost his mind when he felt healing hands wrap around his erection.

 

            John broke away, just enough so that he could inspect that which belonged to him. Sherlock glowed under the scrutiny, flexing his spine and uttering a soft, purring noise of contentment; he belonged. John, the best man Sherlock had ever known, the one who had seen every awful flaw, was here, and wanting him. Being possessed, being desired and held captive in the safe gasp of this man...

 

            He thought about John's earlier question and realised for the very first time in his life that he was an idiot.

 

            This was necessary. Completely, totally. John's soft touch was searching, his thumb rolling over the head of Sherlock's cock and smoothing the wet pre-cum, and nothing had ever felt so good.  It was nearly overwhelming, and he realised he was just saying the doctor's name, over and over.

 

            'John, John, _John._ '

 

            'Hush, love. I'm here.' A kiss, pressed to Sherlock's cheekbone, and all at once the fear that this was _too much_ was gone. For the second time, John had called him _love_ , and his voice had been so sweet and low when he'd uttered it. 'Tell me what you want, Sherlock.'

 

            His eyes snapped open, so that he could watch the play of emotions across John's face. His gaze was intent, serious, and he was so brave. Brave enough to ask for this, to ask for more, when Sherlock had needed it just as much but was too scared of losing him to ask to be touched.

 

            'Take off your trousers. Want to feel you against me.'

 

            John kissed him, a reward, and obeyed. A brief, bereft moment without the warmth of John was quickly done, and then he was back, wrapping his hand in Sherlock's hair and crushing their mouths together.

 

            'You're so beautiful.' John kissed his neck, and without thinking, Sherlock wrapped one leg around the smaller man's hips, pulling him close. 'By all that is holy, Sherlock, you need to stop that or I'm going to be finished before we start.'

 

            Sherlock couldn't help grinning, and deliberately rolled his hips, forcing a curse out of John.

 

            'Would you touch me again?' He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to John's throat, letting his teeth scrape, and the hand which didn't cup John's face drifted down to stroke his hip. 'Am I allowed?'

 

            'God, yes,' John managed, and with tentative, discovering touches, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the doctor's erection. 'Sherlock!'

 

            It was a wealth of new information. He learnt the width, the weight and the sheer heat of John's cock, and couldn't hold his tongue.

 

            'You're... my deduction wasn't even close.' John's head dropped to his shoulder, and Sherlock cradled his head as he moved his hand slowly over the strong, solid length of him. 'You're really large for your height.'

 

            John gave a broken chuckle, which fell into a moan as Sherlock gripped his base, slowly stroking him. 'Stop, love. I can't last this – I want to make you come for me. This is meant to be about you, and while you're touching me and looking at me like that all I can think about is flipping you over and fucking you until neither of us can move.'

 

            'Talk is cheap, John,' Sherlock managed, 'show me?'

 

            John kissed him, then settled lower on the bed, tracing the lines of his chest and belly first with hands, then mouth and tongue. Learning Sherlock, memorising him, finding out what made him gasp and squirm and – when his mouth closed around one pale nipple – what made him cry out and pull John close.

 

            'That. That's... ohh.'

 

            He felt John smile against him, before he kissed a trail to the other nub. 'You're sensitive here, aren't you?'

 

            Whatever answer he'd been about to give died in his throat when John kissed him there, his teeth pulling none-too-gently, and instead he made some sort of incoherent moaning noise and threw back his head. John's hand closed around the column of his throat, and when his gaze rose to meet Sherlock's his eyes were dark.

 

            'Do you know what that does to me, Sherlock? To hear you speechless, knowing it's because of me?' He smiled, and ducked down once more, and lifted one of Sherlock's legs, pressing it down into the mattress. 'You have to tell me if this is too much.'

 

            Sherlock growled with frustration and pushed at John's shoulder. 'Please, John. I'm so close-'

 

            John's answer – which was certainly satisfactory – was to wrap his mouth around Sherlock's cock and take him deep.

 

            It would become apparent, days later, that the noise Sherlock released at this point had forced Mrs Hudson to watch three hours of _Alien_ movies on full volume in an attempt to give her boys some privacy – it was hard to tell which of the two experiences had scarred her more.

 

            John hummed around him and Sherlock cried out, then again when one of the doctor's hands cupped him. Sherlock's heart felt too big to fit in his chest, his breath came fast and hard, and more than anything he wanted John closer, fingers digging crescent-moon grooves into his shoulders.

 

            John lifted his head, and pressed one of his fingers between Sherlock's lips. Meeting his gaze, he sucked on it, earning him a groan of approval, and John's face pressed to his belly.

 

            'You're perfect. Do you even understand how much I need you right now?'

 

            Sherlock gently sifted his fingers through the hair at the base of John's neck, a moment of stillness which was coloured by the fact that his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears. 'My John,' he murmured, breathless. 'Please-'

 

            John laughed, and bent his head again, touching the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's cock, swirling and tasting before he sucked him in once more, his moistened finger tracing his entrance.

 

            Sherlock realised, slightly dazed, that he would need to find a new career where he didn't ever need to think again, because if he achieved his new life goal of spending all of his time in bed with his personal doctor, he was unlikely to ever be able to form a coherent thought.

 

            Then John's finger entered him, stretching him, and everything went bright. 'J-john!'

 

            John's voice was rough. 'Tell me what you want. I won't do anything you don't want. God, you're just so.' He choked, pressing his finger deeper, and when Sherlock threw back his head he felt the welcome hurt of John's teeth against the column of his throat. 'Tell me, love.'

 

            He'd said it again. Right at that moment, Sherlock didn't care if he meant it, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. 'Fuck me. Now, John, hurry.'

 

            John grabbed one of Sherlock's legs, bringing it up so it rested on his shoulder, and kissed his thigh. 'Tell me what feels good. Talk to me, Sherlock.'

 

            'This. This feels good. Just... more.'

 

            A second finger joined the first, scissoring within him, slick with lube he couldn't remember John applying, and the momentary discomfort was replaced by a blinding, blissful pleasure when skilled fingers found the bundle of nerves which he'd known about, on an intellectual level but-

 

            there was nothing intellectual about this feeling. His whole body vibrated with it, and he knew that if John didn't hurry, just that feeling alone would be more than enough to make him come. By the time John entered him with a third finger, he was writhing beneath him, every muscle in his body screaming.

 

            'Relax, love, breathe. Is this alright?'

 

            'Now, John! Please!'

 

            Apparently, the good doctor didn't require more input than that, because his forehead was pressed to Sherlock's and his lube-slick cock was pressing slowly into him...

 

            Sherlock cried out, and both of John's hands grabbed his face, pressing a kiss to his open mouth. 'Alright?'

 

            'Good. Great. Really, really... oh, god. Do that again.' John obeyed, rolling his hips, and the deep angle meant that he was hitting Sherlock's prostate. 'Necessary. Really, really necessary. I – ahhh – I'm so close, John.'

 

            He couldn't help digging his nails into John's back, and the act seemed to do something to the doctor – what had been slow, and tenative, turned furious as John pounded into him. 'Sherlock, touch yourself. Please, love, let me see you.'

 

            He barely registered the words, but was so far gone that he obeyed immediately, dropping one hand from John's back to stroke his own erection.

 

            'Come for me, sweetheart.' John kissed him, his breath coming in catching gasps. 'Now, Sherlock.'

 

            Only a fool disobeyed the advice of his doctor, and Sherlock was powerless to do anything but feel his whole body rock as his orgasm took him, only aware dimly of John joining him, crying out and collapsing on top of him.

 

            For a long while, they lay together, completely spent, as Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and wondered how this had happened. He had John in his arms, both of them naked and warm, and this was the greatest thing he'd ever known.

 

            Even if a time came when John realised how difficult Sherlock was, and finally decided to leave him, he would be able to remember this. Remember that there was a time when he'd been wanted.

 

            'Stop it, Sherlock.'

 

            Sherlock's hand stilled from where it had been testing the texture of John's hair. 'Stop what?'

 

            'Thinking. You're doing it really loudly, and it's annoying.' John rose up on his elbows, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips. 'I'm not doing anywhere.' He chuckled. 'I'm not even sure you're ever going to be able to get me out of this bed. We might need to find some way of getting food delivered right to this duvet. Are you alright?'

 

            He rolled over, taking John with him, pinning him, and kissed him. 'I'm perfect, apparently. I have it from a reliable source.' He frowned, considering. 'This just doesn't seem real. I spent so long wanting you, and now...'

 

            'I'm yours, love. Have I not made that clear?' John spoke gently, stroking a curl away from Sherlock's temple. 'There's only you. And, possibly, Gladstone. Although you're infinitely prettier than she is.'

 

            'You need to stop calling me pretty. It's not dignified.'

 

            'Oh, isn't it?' John made a strange noise which Sherlock had assumed was only used by maiden aunts presented with small babies and, to his everlasting horror, began to tickle him. 'Is it not dignified, Sherlock Holmes?'

 

            'Mercy! Eeeee!'

 

            'Tell me you're pretty!'

 

            'Jaaawwwnn! Let me go!'

 

            'Tell me!'

 

            'I'm pretty! Bloody hell, let me go!' He collapsed, gasping, on top of the smaller man, who was killing himself laughing. 'You are an evil little man.'

 

            'Puh-lease, I could take you in a fight any day. Who are you calling little man?'

 

            He grinned at Sherlock, and then his expression changed, the humour fading.

 

            'Is this experiment a success? I don't know if I can go back, now that... now that I know how much I need you.'

 

            'You keep calling me _love_ ,' Sherlock said, speaking into the crook of John's neck so that he wouldn't have to meet his eyes.

 

            'Well, that's probably because I keep loving you, idiot.'

 

            'You keep... what?'

 

            John pressed a palm to the place where Sherlock's heart was beating a furious tattoo in his chest. 'I've spent a really long time loving you, Sherlock. Did you really never deduce that?'

 

            Whatever John had been about to say next was lost, as Sherlock pressed him into a hug so tight that the circulation of air to his brain was cut off.

 

            Needless to say, Mrs Hudson developed quite a liking for Ripley and an impressive collection of earplugs in the coming days.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

_Two years later_

 

 

            The day dawned, bright and beautiful and in complete and utter chaos.

 

            The first truly warm day of the year, it was mid-April and the risk of rain had been giving everyone involved heart palpitations for weeks, but the day knew what was required of it. It presented itself with focused, pure sunshine, as if it was cheerily looking forward to the events to come, and a little bit smug and self-satisfied that it alone out of everything had managed to avoid going spectacularly wrong.

 

            'It's a monumental cock-up. Spectacular. Odes will be written, Mrs Hudson. Stories told, songs sung of how I single-handedly engineered the greatest disaster known to all humankind.'

 

            Mrs Hudson, who was already distinctly harried and had half of her hair in curlers, petted her doctor distractedly on his sandy head.

 

            'It's not that bad, dear. Have you seen Detective Lestrade?'

 

            'Not that bad? Can you picture a single bloody way this could be going worse? I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it right from the start, and this is just the universe telling me to grab the dog and get the hell out of here.'

 

            Mrs Hudson paused from where she'd been pacing the floor, in the middle of dialing a number in her ongoing attempts to field and avert the crisis. John had been in enough war-room situations to recognise tactical, military genius when he saw it, and Mrs Hudson was a godsend.

 

            It said a lot that even she wasn't able to fix all that had gone wrong.

 

            'Grab the dog and get out of here?' she echoed, outraged. 'What about Sherlock?'

 

            John rolled his eyes, buried both his hands in his hair and attempted to pull it out. 'Well, _obviously_ I'm going to take him with me when I flee this burning ship. Don't be ridiculous; I've invested far too much in that man to leave him behind.'

 

            'Just take deep, cleansing breaths, dear. I'm going to try and sort this all out – can you please track down the detective? I'm worried that Sherlock might have done him a mischief.'

 

            John sat bolt upright. Until that very moment he hadn't even considered that option, when he'd left his partner and Lestrade drinking together at the hotel bar late the night before.

 

            'Oh, god. Sherlock's going to have killed him. We'll find him, tied naked to a tree and whimpering. Which will make my life even more stressful.'

 

            'Just go,' Mrs Hudson flapped at him, forcing him out of the room and into the equisite pale green hallway. 'You're all dressed and ready, that's something, at least. I'll sort out everything else, just find poor Mr Lestrade and try to get him looking presentable.'

 

            John wandered down the stairs, focusing on his breathing and trying not to freak out – this was something he'd gotten particularly good at in two years of loving and living with Sherlock Holmes – as he took in the glory of the house Mycroft had arranged for the day. Hanbury Hall in the beautiful heart of Worchestershine was generally open to the public, but now it was mostly quiet; all of the chaos of the day was taking place away from the main house, in the exquisite gardens and the orangery.

 

            John had chosen the place, having visited it when he was a child and remembering only one thing with any real clarity: the tranquility of it, and the bees.

 

            It was anything but tranquil. So far today John had been informed that Sherlock had disappeared – he wasn't too worried about that, he usually showed up again in time for the things he deemed important, and he bloody hoped this fell into that category – that there was no food for anyone, several outfits had gone missing somewhere along the line and that the violinist had eaten some bad shrimp.

 

            He walked through the conservatory, pushing open the big glass door, and was immediately attacked by a whirling dervish.

 

            'Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn,' it screamed, and he managed to untangle himself from its grasp just enough to hold it at arm's length.

 

            'Mallory, you scared me half to death. Are you alright?' He smiled at her; she was currently taking A-levels, at the ripe old age of eight, but she'd taken time out of revision to travel north with her mother.  

 

            She looked more than a little manic, dressed as she was in a purple and green gown made from a length of Kenyan fabric over a poofy sort of underskirt, lime-green Converse and a sparkly tiara balanced precariously in her wild mass of curly black hair. Also, because she was carrying Gladstone, who was wearing a purple bow tie and looked up at John with rheumy, confused eyes.

 

            'Mallory, why have you got Gladstone? And... have you painted her toenails?' He pressed a hand to his forehead. 'Girls, I don't know if I can deal with much more drama today. Please, tell me everything's alright.'

 

            Mallory shifted from foot to foot, then dumped the dog down, who promptly lay down on John's feet. 'I found the policeman.'

 

            'Greg? Was he... dressed?'

 

            'Yes. He was dressed in Molly's dress and sleeping by the beehives.'

 

            'Molly's dress,' John repeated. 'Tell me he didn't stretch it.'

 

            'No, he didn't. I remembered what you told me about approaching people like solving a problem, so I first made him get up, then made him have water, and then I made him get out of the dress and put on his proper clothes.' She beamed at him, showing off her new braces, which had special purple rubber bands for the occasion. 'Then I told him that if he wanted to express his inner woman he should have asked to be in a dress, not stealing Molly's, which is mean.'

 

            'Well done, sweetheart. Is he alright now?'

 

            'Yup. I had to tell him I would wash his mouth with soap, because he kept saying bad words.'

 

            A thought occurred to John. 'Why were you down at the beehives?'

 

            'Lock texted me and asked me to. Don't worry, I told my Mum where I went.' She crouched down and patted Gladstone. 'He asked me to sort Greg out, said there was something he had to do.'

 

            John closed his eyes and prayed to the dark gods that it was something nice and non-venomous. However, knowing that at the very least Mallory and Greg seemed to be dressed and functional was a relief.

 

            'Don't suppose you know if anyone's found a violinist? Or any food?'

 

            She shook her head vigorously, knocking the tiara askew. John fixed it, petting down the soft curls. Since they'd met her on that case what felt like a lifetime ago, John and Sherlock had babysat for the genius little girl quite often; her mother worked several jobs, and it was easier to drop Mallory off at 221b after school than to track her down when she ran away and was inevitably found sitting cross-legged in their living room eating Mrs Hudson's scones and reading books about brains.

 

            The small, warm pleasure of being allowed to touch and gentle someone so intensely private , of being amoungst the select group of people she trusted, was almost enough to calm John down. She reminded him so much of Sherlock sometimes, and the two of them – Sherlock and Mallory – were surprisingly close. They understood each other on a level no one else seemed to be able to breach.

 

            'Right. Could you take Gladstone to the orangery, Mallory? I've got to attempt to sort this all out.'

 

            'It'll all be alright, John,' she said sagely, patting his sleeve. 'I like your hat.'

 

            Self-conciously, he reached up a hand to touch his dress-uniform beret. 'I shouldn't be this nervous, should I? It's just... I never needed this, never wanted it, and it's all gotten a bit out of hand. Mycroft insisted on this massive affair and I keep expecting everyone to just point and laugh and say this has all been some eccentric, two-year Holmes joke at my expense.'

 

            The little girl looked at him with her big, black eyes, wise beyond her years, and said, 'you're a moron. Lock loves you, and it'll all be fine. Uncle Mycroft told me to tell you to remember to breathe.'

 

            John blinked at her, not least because she had gotten into the habit of calling the older Holmes _uncle_ to annoy him. 'Why does everyone keep saying that?'

 

            'You do tend to freak out,' she said evenly. 'Look, everything's going to be fine. Just come with me to the orangery – your sister has met Miss Adler and it's all getting a bit strange.'

 

            Oh, god. Harri and Irene; he genuinely couldn't imagine a worse pair. His sister had been dry for eighteen months – he had a horrible suspicion that Sherlock had said something to her, after she'd managed to get so bad she'd actually almost made John cry – but big events with free bars were always a bit touch-and-go.

 

            Then again, maybe a dominatrix was exactly what his sister needed. He groaned, took Mallory's proffered hand and led girl and dog across the gardens towards the orangery.

 

            At least the flowers were flawless, taken from the grounds. The orangery, a victorian hothouse filled with orangeblossom, was at the end of an aisle of white roses and jasmine. Guests hovered around, ready to be seated when – or, if – the music ever started or Sherlock showed up.

 

            Mallory dashed off to join Molly, who appeared to have retrieved her gown and was dressed in rich purple, looking very pretty. She waved, and nearly hit Lestrade in the eye, who was standing ashen-faced beside her.

 

            'You made it,' John said, smiling for possibly the first time since waking up. 'Mallory told me everything. If you want me to keep silent, you're going to have to owe me one.'

 

            Lestrade looked nauseous. 'Do what you will, no punishment will ever be as cruel as the one your stupid boyfriend inflicted on me. By the way, I heard something about the catering going wrong, so I told Mycroft's secretary. She'll sort it out.'

 

            'Speaking of punishment,' came a purring voice from behind them, and John turned to find himself enveloped in the _Chanel Chance-_ scented arms of Irene Adler. 'You need to relax, darling. It's a happy day.'

 

            'It's still weird to me that you're not dead,' he said, not without affection, and looked over her shoulder to Harri. 'I can't decide if I should have an issue with you being anywhere near my sister.'

 

            Harri smiled, and added, 'I felt the same way when you moved in with Sherlock, Johnny.'

 

            'Speaking of,' Irene interjected, 'have you seen him? We're supposed to get started soon.'

 

            John considered screaming, thrashing and running away, only stopping to grab his dog and his partner on the way, but instead tugged nervously on his dress uniform and turned on his heel.

 

            'We need to give him a ticking clock. Let's do this.'

 

            Military officer John was back and determinedly not freaking out. He turned, and moved to stand under the arch by the orangery, where he was joined by Harri, Lestrade, Molly and Mallory.

 

            Mycroft suddenly appeared at his elbow in impeccable tails and top hat, panting a little. 'Don't panic, John,' he managed, 'catering is sorted.'

 

            'And the violinist?' he hissed back as everyone took their seats.

 

            'It'll all be alright. Now calm down and think of England.'

 

            John still wasn't a hundred percent certain if Mycroft had only managed to engineer the position of best man by agreeing to organise absolutely everything. Sherlock's preferred choice – the best woman, Molly – hadn't seemed to mind and instead was nervously hopping from foot to foot, picking petals off of her bouquet.

 

            This was completely unnecessary. He didn't want a piece of paper to tell him that he'd made a commitment, or a big party, or the stress of all of this – he'd only agreed to it because Sherlock had asked him, and he couldn't deny that man anything.

 

            They'd been lying together at around three in the morning, the light of a streetlamp outside illuminating the soft white of Sherlock's skin, where his head rested on John's belly. John was lazily braiding his hair, half-aroused even after they had made love twice, and he couldn't remember ever having felt so content.

 

            'John?'

 

            'Hmmm?'

 

            Sherlock had raised his head, his eyes silver in the faint light, something impossibly open and vulnerable in his expression. 'I've been meaning to ask you something. You have to promise you won't... freak out.'

 

            In retrospect, people did seem to accuse him of freaking out an awful lot. 'I won't. Are you alright?'

 

            'I'm good. I'm perfect.' He'd smiled, and had risen up on his elbows to press a kiss to John's lips, sleepily and slowly delving into his mouth, cradling the base of his head. 'Marry me?'

 

            How was he supposed to say that it didn't matter to him if they were married or not? That there would never be anyone for him but Sherlock, and all of the people who were their nearest and dearest were completely mental and getting them all in a single venue was probably a mistake?

 

            A hush fell suddenly, and then a lone violin's song rose, soft and joyous, filling the garden. It wasn't a melody John recognised, but he knew who played it before he turned.

 

            And suddenly nothing much mattered, except the man walking towards him, playing his violin and dressed in a beautifully tailored tuxedo. With – and John rolled his eyes, despite himself – motorcycle boots.

 

            He didn't really want to know what had happened in the 24 hours since he'd last seen his lover, so he made the executive decision to ignore that particular detail, and instead take in the whole.

 

            Mrs Hudson, who walked down the aisle with Sherlock, kissed them both on the cheek and joined their hands, before bursting into noisy tears and being helped into her seat by Mallory's mother. John couldn't seem to stop grinning like an idiot, and Sherlock bent low, to kiss his cheek.

 

            'How is it I've never seen you wearing that uniform before?'

 

            'Special occasions, love.'

 

            'Like... tonight?'

 

            'This is meant to be a big moment, could you keep it in your pants for ten minutes?'

 

            His pale skin love smiled, and took both of his hands in his as the minister began to speak. Then low enough so only the two of them could hear it, he murmured,

 

            'I'm ready to spend a very long time loving you, John.'

 

            Something in his heart released, and he grinned back.

 

            'Ready when you are, Sherlock Holmes.'

 


End file.
